


Red Beast

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom admires black leather, chrome and red duco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Beast

Vrrrroooooooom, vrrrrrooooooooom, vrrrrrrrroooooooooooom

The deep growling noise of a powerful engine disturbs the quiet of my afternoon of reading and latte on the terrace of my favourite cafe.

It's my day off, a tradition we established long ago to maintain our sanity. Once a week, we each take off on our own pursuits, giving us time to ourselves to recharge, decompress, become individuals again, not part of an 'us' that is so closely wound together that sometimes we find it hard to work out where one ends and the other starts.  
  
Vrrrooooooooommmm, vrrrrooooooooooommmmm, vrrrrrrroooooooooooooommmmm.

This time I look up from my book, a slight frown on my face. It was such a nice quiet afternoon, too, I think with a sigh. But then loud traffic noises are one of the few downsides of the London lifestyle, so you just take the good with the bad and make the most of it, I think as I scan the area for the culprit.

Just as I am about to go back to my reading, I see it. Him. It. Yeah. It. Let's just go with 'it'. Just a few feet up the road from where I'm sitting.

Oh, blow me!

My mouth hangs open and I pull my shades down to take a good old look. And truth be told, I don't know what to look at first, so I settle for staring at the whole thing as an ensemble, and I have to make a conscious effort not to let my tongue hang out and drool.

Right, let me paint you a picture.

Red high gloss paint, black carbon fibre, gleaming chrome, matte black metal, power coiled into a graceful upswept shape that looks as though it's about to leap into motion, the purr of the engine as it idles resonating in the bones of my jaw. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present to you the magnificence that is the _[Ducati Vyper](http://www.asphaltandrubber.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/Ducati-Vyper-concept-Luca-bar-red.jpg)_.

And if that weren't droolworthy enough, to complete the package of 'oh my god I've died and gone to heaven' there is the lucky fucker with that beauty between his legs. Calf-high black leather riding boots. Form-fitting black leather jacket with all the trimmings. Shiny black full helmet with reflecting visor and chrome trim. Black leather riding gloves.

Tight black leather trousers that look sprayed on, and fuck me, do they move nicely as he leans forward to rest his forearms on the tank to people watch from his perch. Let us just say that I can see the outline of every muscle on his luscious and pert arse as it spreads and splays out on the leather seat.

Yeah, ok, I know what you're thinking. What happened to 'us'? Well... nothing, really. The fact that we are together and we love one another more than I suspect is normal or even healthy doesn't mean we are blind. Or made or stone. We are enlightened men of the world, we are. So we have 'museum rules': admire from a safe distance, but don't even think of touching.

And right at this moment, I'm looking. Man, am I looking!!! And wriggling uncomfortably on my chair, because, to call a spade a spade, I'm getting hard as all fuck just by looking. Which is all very well and perfectly within 'museum rules' guidelines, but really, what am I, fifteen?

And yet I can't stop myself, I give up any pretense of reading and just plain stare and... well, drool. Like a fucking teenager. And just like a fucking teenager, I shrink down on my chair as Bike Guy looks over his shoulder straight at me, as though he could feel my eyes on his back. Yeah, man, you've been caught staring and drooling. Well done!!

I pick up my book, dying with embarrassment, and use it to shield myself from the blind stare of the visor. If it weren't because at the moment walking might be, at best, uncomfortable, I'd pack the book into the messenger bag at my feet and scoot right out of here.

So I stay put, trying to concentrate on my book and not doing a particularly good job of it. I finally give in to temptation and risk a peek over the top, and my neck makes like a turtle, pulling my head right down between my shoulders. Bike Guy is still looking at me, visor up this time, but the way the light falls on him, I cant see his face. And now he's turned half around, hand on hip, and the motherfucker looks even more delicious, the way the leather moulds around his body.

Right, I don't care if I have to walk like a duck with diarhoea, I'm out of here. I scramble to my feet, snag the bag and start walking in the opposite direction to where the bike is parked, head down, still trying to put the book back into the bloody bag.

I stop dead when I hear my name. That's a voice I'd recognise anywhere. I look around, standing on the tips of my toes, but I can't see him. What I do see is Bike Guy, waving at me. I blame my brain's blood-depleted state that it takes me a fair while of staring to connect the dots.

Finally, the fucking penny drops, and I just stand there like a lump of salt while he takes his helmet off, revealing dark floppy hair that contrasts starkly with the pale skin of his face, blue eyes that are dancing with excitement, and a crooked grin that at the right moment can make my heart stop. Placing the helmet carefully on the tank, he turns the engine off and dismounts, and I fully admit to the whimper that escapes me as I watch the play of muscle under the leather.

By the time he turns around, I still haven't moved, and he gives me a confused look. It's not like me to not react to the sight of him. Although that's not exactly true, is it? I'd say I'm reacting quite nicely, thank you.

Anyway, he's now walked the short distance between us and is standing in front of me, head tilted to one side as he waves his hand in front of my face, "Hey, anybody home? Dude, you were totally checking out my arse!!” I snap out of it, and now I do react to the cheeky bugger, the smile that spreads across my face my default setting when he's around.

Now that normal programming seems to have resumed, he pulls me down for a kiss. And I completely forget that we are in the middle of the street in the middle of fucking London and pull him to me and snog the breath out of him. And he, little exhibitionist that he is, climbs me like a tree until he has his arms around my shoulders and his legs around my waist. "So you liked what you saw, then?” he grins at me, rocking his hips slightly against my raging hard on. Damn the evil pixie, if I let him he'll make me come right where I'm standing.

"Get off, you little freak, there are children about." I say, but I can't help laughing with the joy of having his body tight against mine. To my relief, he does get off before we get arrested for public gross indecency and, taking my hand, he pulls me excitedly towards Red and Shiny.

"What do you think?” he asks, grinning at me and patting the red body in a way that can only be described as 'loving'. "Nice." I answer, my eyebrows going up in appreciation, "Where the hell did you get it from?” I rake my eyes over his body, "And that getup?" He giggles and strikes a pose, "You like it, then?" Instead of answering, I show him how much I do like it, my lips crashing on his and my hands pulling him to me and roaming all the leather. "I'll take that as a yes, then," he quips, smiling against my lips when I finally release him.

Wise to his ways, I'm not about to be sidetracked, "Come on, fess up. What's with the bike and the leather?" He gives me a sideways look and suddenly I know what he's going to say, and I'm off, "You went and bought yourself a bike? Are you crazy? Do you have a death wish?" His face crumples. Great, I just killed all the happiness and excitement in his eyes.

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to calm down, and start again, pulling him to me, "I'm sorry, love, I thought you had just, dunno, hired it to take it for a spin. The thought of you riding this thing, beautiful as it is, in London traffic scares me half to death." He gives me one of his wide-eyed 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' looks, "I'll be careful, I promise."

Uh huh, uh huh... Yeah, right.

"Come on," he says, letting go of me and mounting the red beast, "I'll take you for a bit of a ride." Nope! I didn't just adjust myself, no siree. Hot damn! Images of the things I would do to him, with him, on that damned bike cross my mind, and I have to resort to thinking of our Gracious Sovereign to get myself back under control.

By this time he's looking back at me with a smirk, knowing full well the effect he has on me, "Well? Are you coming or what?" Bloody tease of a runt! I shake myself and answer, "I don't have a helmet." Instead of replying, he leans over and pulls up a matching helmet to the one he's wearing, only this one is a midnight blue. Tossing it at me, he turns around, puts his helmet back on, and, turning the ignition on with a mighty growl, says, "Get on, blondie, we're going for a ride."

I barely have time to put my arms around him once I'm on, and he's already peeling off, merging with surprising ease into the traffic. And now I really am in deep trouble. I am on him like paint from groin to chin, and if that weren't doing it for me—which, oh, bloody hell, it does—the vibration of the engine between my legs would do quite nicely, ta very much. Both things together... Yeah, let's say I'm in trouble.

And about to get even deeper, because his hand grabs one of mine and... Oh, holy motherfucking hell!! Ok, this puts a new spin on 'going for a ride'. I whimper against his shoulder as my hand is pressed against his crotch and I feel the outline of his cock under the soft leather. Every ridge. Every vein. Every twitch. The bastard has gone... How is it that he put it in his inimitable way? Oh yeah, he's gone 'saggy gonads' on me.

At this point I'm pretty much resigned to die a horrific death under a lorry, so I decide that, if I'm going to die, I might as well die happy. Caution to the wind, I start grinding against his arse, which is helpfully perked up as he leans over the handlebar, and take him into hand, as it were.

I know this is going to be quick and dirty—in oh, so many ways—so I don't bother with finesse and just go hell for leather. Soon I'm biting into the leather at his shoulder, and his bike handling is getting a bit erratic, and that adds a certain frisson to the whole thing—who'd a thunk, death by lorry is an aphrodisiac.

I can feel the moment he goes over the edge, his cock twitching madly under my hand and, with a brief prayer that we may survive this maddest of madcap shenanigans in our whole history of mad stunts, I close my eyes and let myself join him, humping wildly against him, the leather under my hand getting slick as his come soaks into it.

By the time I can breathe again, we seem to be still alive and undamaged, and the weird little freak is yeeeehawing so loud that I can hear him through the helmet. Within minutes, we are outside the flat and he's smoothly parking the bike in one of the few empty parking spots on the whole street and taking his helmet off. He waits for me to get off before setting it on the kickstand and then dismounts, making an obscene show of the whole process as I watch fascinated, helmet still uselessly sitting snugly on my head.

With his trademark twatty grin in pride of place, he walks right up to me, takes the helmet off me and pulls me down to him with his free hand to kiss me thoroughly, saying, as he lets go of me, "So, can I keep the bike, then?"

 

 

 


End file.
